Outside The Inn

[As dragon plays and human prays, the city outside continues its
chaotic spin into hysteria.  Or, if that doesn't suit your fancy, it
continues its hysterical spin into chaos.  Either way you read it,
fecal matter hit fans and fans hit tax collectors and tax collectors
just up and quit before the rates really made things troublesome.  No
quarter was given to any foolish enough to stop and smell the roses;
only apologies to their next of kin, as the streets swelled with the
fleeing masses of a panicked realm.

In this middle of this mad dance, there stands one small pocket of
relative calm.  Outside Montebank's, a less than reputable
"establishment" from the West Side, two of the three stooges sit with
an expression of sheer disbelief plastered on their faces.  Most of
the crowd around them is silent, staring at something going on in in
the street.  Dupre wipes a hand across his forehead, staring at
Shamino as an arrow goes flying overhead.]

It just can't be possible.

<thwack>

"Perfect shot!"

[Shamino nods in agreement, passing a bottle of mead toward the
warrior without blinking.  A second arrow flies against the backdrop
of the ceiling.]

Absolutely impossible.

<thwack>

"Perfect shot!"

[Dupre finishes off the bottle of mead, placing it on the table as yet
another arrow sails through the distance.]

You know-

<thwack>

-if I was to put my hand up in the air right now, by all accounts-

[Dupre raises his right hand into the air, wincing as another arrow
screams over the table.  In the distance, a man screams out in pain.
Opening one eye, Dupre looks up in disgust.]

Bah!  I can't even get hit in the bloody hand!  

[Shamino peers.]

It's not bloody at all.

[Dupre bahs loudly, placing his hands on the table just as another
arrow is launched.]

I know it's not.  Absolutely ridiculous.  It should, by all rights, be
mangled.  It ought to have bits of bone and sinew and tendon sticking
out worse than a servant in Lord British's bed chamber.

[Shamino blanches at the mention of Lord British; Dupre ignores him,
waving the hand into the air again as he continues.]

I mean, two hundred someodd years now, I've always counted on two
things.  One, the Avatar hogging all the good treasure.  And the armor
too.  Especially when we need it most.  Two ... two ... well, two, the
problems are always being caused by something that'll take at least
five chest wounds and six cases of the rotten cherry rickets to solve.
And three ...

[Shamino chews on his lower lip, mumbling to Dupre as a bolt smacks an
unseen target.]

Oversized dungeons that come out of nowhere, must have taken years to
build, and yet no one's heard of them until we go gallavanting into
their depths?

<thwock>

[Dupre nods, cutting off Shamino.]

And four, it's always my arse carrying the skiff!  

[Shamino coughs, giving Dupre a pat on the back as he opens up a
bottle of port with his free hand.]

Always.

[Dupre sighs.]

Always.  My arse.  The skiff.  The skiff.  My arse.  "Dupre, carry the
skiff."  "Dupre, steal those wine caskets."  "Dupre, lift this tree."
"Say, Dupre, can you carry that cannon?"  "Here, Dupre, eat this
rock."

<pause>

Just what the 'ell was eating that rock about?

[Shamino shakes his head.]

Got no idea.  It gave the Avatar a good laugh, though.  And then there
was that time out in New Magincia ... "Dupre-"

[Dupre glowers.]

I remember.  "Dupre, about this llama ..."

[Shamino and Dupre both look down at the table, swallowing quickly as
the word 'sheep' lingers in their memories.  Shamino sniffs.]

It never happened.

[Dupre exhales quickly.]

I don't remember a thing.

[Shamino shrugs.]

Probably was a bad dream.

[Dupre smiles weakly.]

Yes, a dream.

[Shamino reaches over, pats Dupre on the shoulder.  The knight is
startled by the touch, pulling back before Shamino can even offer an
apology.  Muttering, Dupre shifts his glass from left hand to right,
then pauses.  He looks back over to Shamino.]

What was a llama doing there anyway?

[The two stooges are interrupted by the appearance of Iolo, clutching
his crossbow to his chest as he pulls out the third chair.  Shamino
pours a glass of port for the bard as he clunks the crossbow on the
table.]

Well, how was it?

[Iolo frowns.]

I hit the bullseye seven times, and hit some poor man in the back with
a bolt.  Glanced off his spine.

[Dupre and Shamino exchange a look of hope.  Reaching for the bottle,
Dupre tries to summon a laugh.]

So, you at least hit one person, right?

[Iolo nods slowly.]

Yes, I did.

[Shamino leans back, clearly a bit relieved by the news.]

At least you nailed one.  That's not too unbelievable.

[Iolo shakes his head.]

They said he'd never walk again.

[Dupre gives a hurrah, clapping Iolo on the back.]

That's *great* news!

[Iolo sighs.]

At least, that's what they said until I hit him.  Now he's walking
like he never sat in a wheelchair for fifty years.

[Both companions tumble backward out of their chairs, leaving Iolo
alone at the table.  He blinks, takes a drink from his glass, and
throws a hand to his chin in resignation.]

That's what I said.



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